Of Butter and Tears
by altairattorney
Summary: Being sane is not easy in the Shivering Isles. But Haskill is just fine that way.


_Of Butter and Tears_

He has experienced nothing, not once, of the colourful worlds madmen's hearts are. Yet, at the end of the day, Haskill might say he is the most satisfied – if least fitting – inhabitant of the Isles.

In other dimensions, as he is well aware, most men are supposed to be reasonable. But he has travelled far and wide in Tamriel, and believes otherwise. After all, there is a reason why he – with his calm, clear mind – struggled to enter the Doors of Madness, and sought the blessings of Sheogorath.

Truth is, nobody else out there is wise enough to accept life for what it is. One side of darkness, one side of glory – halves of one truth, ever fighting and both necessary.

Just the brav accept it. And so it goes in the Shivering Isles, which are, in his eyes, the only wise place in the world.

He has found real understanding in there; it is the realm of unpredictable events, the missing piece of his soul. This, on the other hand, must be the reason why the Madgod chose him from the very beginning.

Haskill knew it from the start – as long as it is not imprisoned, madness is freedom. But he, since the day he walked past the Doors, has chosen not to be free.

All he lives for is watch and serve. He watches as Lord Sheogorath walks in, secure and joyous, treading on the memories of his lost sanity with every grain of dust under his boots. He bows as he sits on his titanic throne, mad ruler to a place that, in the end, needs one more than any other.

He has served under his Lord for many, many years, if years can be called the fragments of time that mortals use to measure their existence. Every morning he notices how the Madgod's face has never changed, through feasts and cheese parties, through maddening dreams and thousands of jokes.

Sheogorath's realm is, to his eyes, where everything is crazy enough to be perfect. Roles are reversed, altars carry offers to the filth of mortals; and reason, an otherwise precious gift, is but a nasty presence the Chamberlain can't do without. It is necessary; nothing else could help him observe his Lord as he waltzes through his days.

Haskill is simply there – always obeying, always following, supporting him through euphoria and drunkenness. He is his servant, and the only one Sheogorath is never able to surprise.

Strange, isn't it. In other times, he used to think madmen were unpredictable.

It sounds illogical, yet it is simple to explain. Haskill experiences it firsthand. Responsibilities are vital burdens, even more vital in the life of gods – here, in a realm where no one else really does, a ruler must take on all of its responsibilities.

It is his burden, after all, to make the Prince of Madness much less unpredictable. Underneath his looks, Sheogorath actually is just as static and complete as his kingdom.

Still, Haskill has learnt more than that. In the Shivering Isles, time and madness are never merciful for long; and sometimes, for no reason he knows of, he finds himself looking into distant futures, fearing all of this will eventually end.

There are some days when Haskill, quiet as always on the colourful carpet, hides a tired heart under his unchanged face of servant. In those moments, within the clear depths of his mind, the Chamberlain has a haunting thought – it is the worst of thoughts, a little corner of madness which, out of loyalty, is due to his beloved Lord.

But those are also the most special days. Those are the days when Sheogorath, resting on his throne, stares in the depth of his servant's soul with the shine of his yellow eyes; and laughter, madness and paranoia vanish, to reveal a rare attention in his irises.

Those days, when Haskill waits in silence, Lord Sheogorath stands up all of a sudden, requesting a birdsong from his Chamberlain.

It is a peculiar occurrence, a special occasion. In those golden days, the butler sets to his music with the most meticulous attention. The violin chants long, familiar melodies, quivering under his skilled fingers. The broken harmony of the strings echoes in the hall, touches the columns, gifting the air of New Sheoth with yet another tune.

Haskill knows where art and music come from. They are the only charms which can bring true harmony to the human world. He must admit he never was an artist before; he became one long ago, just to serve his Lord properly. It was part of his tasks – a very pleasant task after all.

When the tune fades, he feels no worries anymore. And Sheogorath watches, caught in between the silence and the words that cannot be spoken.

Despite the silence, he alone can read it all; and a crystalline smile, bright with the touch of his unique wisdom, spreads under his golden eyes.


End file.
